


Broken Compass

by ghostie_withthemostie



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Cheating, Dirty Talk, Drinking, F/M, Frottage, Guns, Oral Sex, Swearing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostie_withthemostie/pseuds/ghostie_withthemostie
Summary: He pummels his way into your life with the destructive force of a hurricane, and amidst the wreckage you start to lose your way.





	1. Failed Navigation

**Author's Note:**

> A different kind of Deadpool from any I have ever written. I struggled with deciding whether or not to post this, but I figured (hope, really) someone out there may enjoy this twisted, manipulative asshole. Also I am on a cheating kick. Don't know. It's bad.  
> Would love to hear any thoughts on this, please leave me a comment! THanksss

“This place is a shithole.”

Those were the first words he ever said to you. He said them nonchalantly, glancing around as he bled out amidst the shattered glass and debris of what had once been your place of employment.

Bodies littered the ground, the blood mixing with the top-shelf liquor, the 50-year-old scotch, the Dom Pérignon, the gold of their labels shimmering wetly in the wake of the massacre. He was skewered by two samurai swords, but still fully alert, chattering mindlessly as you hyperventilated and called the police, and then your manager.

“Hope your boss has insurance.”

And that’s how you met Deadpool, the mercenary of questionable morals. The unkillable asshole with attitude. It should have ended there, would have in fact, except that when the owner of the bar where you worked made the idiotic choice of pursuing a legal battle in a futile attempt to gain restitution for the destruction of his establishment, Deadpool insisted that the only person he would be willing to negotiate with was _you._ So you ended up sitting across from him, week after week, sweating in a second hand pantsuit, while lawyers argued back and forth and the merc interjected every now and again with words like “Affidavit”, “Habeas corpus”, and “punitive damages”, nodding sagely after each. When he wasn’t interrupting with legal nonsense words, he was staring at you, watching you shift and twitch uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his masked, sightless, gaze.

You _hated_ him.

Because of his bullshit, anti-hero antics, you were out of a job, missed rent, and were forced to move in with your boyfriend while you spent your evening slinging drinks at a bar that was so far below the class level of your previous job, it was laughable. Your life was toppled on its ass by an idiot in a red suit who decided, on a whim, to kill some bad guys in a nice bar off of Wall Street.

He caught you one time, a few weeks into the farce of legalities that you were forced, by him, to endure. “No hard feelings, right?” His face was unreadable under the red mask, but you could detect the slight lift of one corner of his mouth. It felt like he was mocking you.

You yanked your arm out of his grip and let him have it, ranted and seethed about every injustice thrust upon you because of his ridiculous ‘job’. At the end of your tirade, he was left standing, stock-still and uncharacteristically silent, seemingly flabbergasted by the aftermath that could be wrought onto one person as a result of his actions. He had no rebuttal. You stormed off, feeling weak with fear, but cleansed somehow.

The meetings were stopped after that. He promised to pay, in full, the amount it would take to repair all damages to the high-end bar he had destroyed, as well as all your wages until the place was up and running again. You declined the charity aimed towards you, wanting nothing more to do with him, instead hoping to make do with what you were earning at your current job until you could get back on your feet again.

And you thought it was done.

But he found you, one slammed, Saturday night at the dive where you worked. He sat down, a wide berth clearing around him as he took a place at the bar. He wasn’t even in his full suit; just a red shirt, jeans, and, as always, the mask. You ignored him for as long as possible, pouring PBRs and off-brand brown liquor to every other possible patron before you finally made your way over to him, your arms crossed, staring expectantly.

“The service in this place sucks,” he said, by way of greeting.

“Fuck off,” was your reply.

He held a hand over his chest, feigning hurt. “Now that’s no way to talk to a paying customer.”

“You haven’t bought anything. So fuck off and leave or order something.”

“I’ll take a beer. Hold the spit, please.”

You poured it sloppily, leaving it mostly head and shoving it towards him so that it sloshed, spilling at least a third of its contents onto the already sticky bar. He ignored all of this, pushing up the bottom of his mask and taking a hearty slug. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he threw out, “Do you know how incredibly hot you are?”

“Yes. I’ve been told at least six times tonight by other drunk assholes,” you deadpanned. “That will be $2.50.”

“I’m serious.”

“I have a boyfriend. $2.50.”

“Do a shot with me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’m _working._ ”

He gestured around to the motley chaos. “Who’s going to care? C’mon, pleeeeeeaaase?”

You measured out two shots of the most expensive stuff in the house (which wasn’t saying much), and threw yours back, waiting for him to do the same with his.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking it to an imaginary friend and downing it easily. “Another?” he asked, hopefully.

Your laugh was full of scorn. “$17.50.” And you walked away.

He stayed all night, though. You threw him a beer or a mis-pour every now and again, but mostly you just worked, pretending he wasn’t there. Other hopeful, opportunistic jerks bought you shots, could maybe sense your tension, and you took them, glaring over at him as you did so. He sightless gaze tracked your every movement, and every time you were within earshot, he started chattering, completely unfazed by your lack of response. By the end of the night, you were pretty toasted, far more than was professionally acceptable, without a doubt. When the place was clear, he remained, watching, nursing half a beer.

“Listen, just pay your tab and go. I’m not up for any discussions right now.” You’re surprised you don’t slur. Grabbing your phone, you decide to text your boyfriend to come and pick you up. You feel too drunk to feel safe making it home alone.

When you make your way back over to him, there’s money on the bar, far more than his tab, but you pocket the excess and decline to comment, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Go, I’m not in the mood.”

“I don’t want to have a discussion, either,” he says, still not moving.

“Then just _go_ ,” you turn away, arms full of empty glasses, preparing to load them into a dish rack. When you spin around with your arms heavily laden once again, he’s right in front of you, and it’s lucky that his reflexes are so advanced, because otherwise you would have dropped the entire rack right there. You never even heard him get up and cross over to your side of the counter. “Jesus-!”

“Can’t we try and be friends?” He interrupts your exclamation, catching the full rack of glasses and setting it effortlessly on the counter top.

Shoving back a lock of hair that was dangling in your face, you glare at him and huff in annoyance. “No. Why?”

Deadpool shrugs, picking at some peeling varnish on the surface of the bar. “I guess I just feel bad about everything that happened. Killing those guys at your old job-“

“And destroying the place.”

“The whole lawyer thing-“

“There was _no_ reason to make me come to those meetings.”

He continues, talking over your interruptions, “You lost your place, your job, and, I don’t know….I’ve been told that my ‘moral compass’ is a little bit ‘off’.” Here he inserted air quotes for emphasis. “But I just feel like I should be…trying to fix it?” Throughout this admission, he had moved steadily closer to you, pressing you back into the corner of the L-shaped bar.

“Then leave me alone, you’ve done enough! I don’t want to be friends, so _back off_!” You shoved forward at his chest, drunkenly, and he caught your wrists, forcing your hands to remain in contact with him. You tugged weakly, but his grip was vice strong.

“Are you sure? Pretty, pretty please?” He took another step towards you, too close now, his thighs pressed to yours, your elbows bending with the strength and the bulk of him. His mouth was curled into a pleading smile, the _asshole_ , and you were angry, but still drunk, and the passion of your anger felt no different from the passion of something else to your alcohol-soaked brain. The fingers on his chest splayed out, fingernails scraping at the cotton of his red t-shirt, his skin warm and muscles hard and solid through the thin fabric.

“No,” you finally breathed, after a few long seconds spent staring at one another, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Deadpool pouted and dropped his head back, as if considering something, meanwhile closing the scant inches left between the two of you, his entire body now flush against yours. You took a sharp intake of breath, your fingers twisting in his shirt as if to keep him locked there, a completely unconscious, unintended movement. He bent his head down to look at you again, his grin back in place.

“Maybe something more?” His question is low and loaded with something dark and filthy. But behind him, suddenly, the glow of headlights; your boyfriend’s car, here to pick you up. You twitch, eyes shooting over his shoulder in panic, and he capitalizes on your distraction, leaning down to mash his scarred mouth to yours. The kiss is deep and quick, your head spinning with more than just the after-effects of cheap liquor.

“Think about it,” his lips whisper against yours before he yanks away, leaving you sagging against the edge of the bar.

He runs into your boyfriend on his way out, slapping him jovially on the back and greeting him, all innocent smiles and handshakes. Your boyfriend stood, shaken and confused, while he left.

“Was that-,” he began, uncertainly.

“Yeah,” you cut him off, turning your back to him and attempting to gather your composure.

“What the fuck did he want?”

You laugh shakily, and shrug, “To be friends.”

“After all the shit he put you through?! The dude’s a fucking nutcase. Everyone always says it, but I didn’t realize how true it was…. _Hey,_ ” he notices your posture, his voice softening with concern, “are you alright, babe? Do I need to go catch him and kick his ass?”

Snorting, you turn to face him. “Like you could.”

“True, but…”

You shake your head. “No, no, he just pissed me off, is all. And maybe I took one too many shots. I just want to go home. Help me close up, please?”

An hour later, you were back at his place. Still shaken by the interaction with the famed merc, your blood screamed for _something_. Shoving your boyfriend up against the wall, slipping a hand into his jeans and wrapping your fingers around his cock, you begged him to fuck you. And he did. He did it hard, and that was good. It was what you needed. It was great.

But, afterwards, while he dozed next to you on the bed, you slid your hand between your legs, rubbing frantically, needing _more_. You came, shaking, stifling your moan into the blankets, your fingers slick with the cum of the man you loved as you imagined someone else above you. Sick with guilt, you fell into an uneasy sleep and woke feeling no better.

When he rolled over to kiss you in the morning, you kept your eyes shut, unable and unworthy to meet his soft, loving gaze.


	2. No Service Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to get lost in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you stuck through chapter one, thanks. It's a lot of expository stuff, but things will begin picking up from here. Thank you for reading, please comment with your thoughts!

Your guilt stuck with you for nearly a week, sharp and heavy in your chest like shrapnel.

Sensing the distance, your boyfriend clung tight, being sweet and accommodating, and ultimately only making you feel worse. When he asked about your behavior, you played it off as being stress related, which was somewhat true. Money was still tight, you hated your new job, and you were living on top of one another in his tiny, NYC studio apartment; these were all things that left you perpetually on edge. He didn’t need to know about the kiss, about the aching, sweating desire left burning in you after your most recent run-in with that red spandex-clad scumbag.

                As a result of the aforementioned meeting, you were constantly on guard while at work, twitching and jumping every time someone new walked through the door. It wasn’t ever _him_ , which pissed you off. That anger wasn’t entirely targeted at Deadpool, though. Most of it was centered on yourself, because, as much as you wished you could deny it, the sinking sensation of disappointment every time a newcomer arrived that was _not_ him made it abundantly clear that you kept hoping it would be. Which wasn’t right. You were in a relationship, you were in love. You were _not_ supposed to be frantically craving the presence of another man. Definitely, you weren’t supposed to be obsessively recalling the sensation of his entire body pressing against yours and the desperate fervor of a stolen kiss, skilled and over far too quickly.

                The anger eventually morphed into resentment towards him, and now you were praying that he would show up, once and for all, so that you could tell him to Fuck Right Off. And you’d mean it this time. Probably. Maybe.

                He didn’t show up at the bar, but he _did_ show up, finally. It was on your way home after a long, slow night at work. Making your way down the flight of stairs into the subway station, you noticed a figure leaning casually against the wall at the bottom. A man, definitely, hooded sweatshirt pulled up and obscuring his face. Alarm bells rang. You were a female, walking alone at 3 o’clock in the morning in New York City. It was simple self-preservation. You paused halfway down, seconds from turning around and walking the few blocks to the next closest station, but the man lowered the hood and you were able to see, even in the dim fluorescent glow, the tell-tale crimson mask.

                An inadvertent sound of disgust spilled from you in response. The noise was half for him, and half for yourself; for the excited jolt low in your belly when you recognized the mercenary. You were still on the verge of turning around, avoiding the confrontation entirely, but he was climbing the steps to meet you and you discovered yourself rooted to the spot, unable or unwilling to flee.

“Fancy meeting you here,” his voice broke the silent tension, warm and irreverent. Deadpool’s mask was pushed up halfway, and you were able to see his scabbed lips tugging into a crooked grin. “Thought anymore about our conversation?” He was one step below you, bringing his face to eye level with your own.

Crossing your arms, you replied, shortly, “No.”

“’No’, you haven’t thought? Or ‘no’, you don’t want to be friends?”

“Both.”

“Liiiiiii-ar,” he sing-songed, wagging a finger in your face. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

You knocked the hand away, “Like I said before: I don’t fucking want to be friends. I want you to leave me alone.”

“Sounds half-right.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I don’t really want to be friends, either,” he responded, shrugging.

“Perfect. Bye.” You start to push past him, but he catches you around the middle, guiding you down so that you’re sharing the same stair. Too close again, you sputter indignantly, twisting and shoving, which only exacerbates the situation, grinding you even further against him.

Deadpool ignores your struggles, keeping you locked in place and talking over your protests, “I want the other thing we talked about.”

“What thing?? Let me go!”

“The something _more_.”

“I have a boyfriend!” You screech, still attempting to twist away.

“Saying that you have a boyfriend isn’t the same thing as saying ‘no’…also, I don’t mind.”

“Well, _I do!_ And so would he!”

“What did you do after I left the other night? Did you tell him what happened?” His legs are on either side of yours now, his arm around your waist pressing you tighter against him still. He can probably feel your heart pounding in your chest if he really concentrates.

“No…,” is your eventual reply.

“Why not?” He looks put-out by this news.

“Because he’d be mad!”

“Why should he be? _I_ kissed _you_ , right? Wait, stop moving, I think I’m almost at a revelation or something. Weird.” His head tilted like he was listening to a conversation you couldn’t hear. “Aha! Maybe you didn’t tell him because you felt guilty, because-stop wiggling, it’s messing up my concentration- _becauuuuse_ …you wanted more, right? Am I right?” His smile is wide and triumphant.

“No!” But you flush a deep red as you say it.

“Did you fuck him when you got home?”

That froze you, and you stare up at him, mouth hanging open wordlessly.

“Ha-HAH! I knew it!” He lowers his face, his mouth pressed close to your ear, “Did you wish it was me?”

                You couldn’t answer, couldn’t move at all. His arms weren’t even keeping you trapped now, his hands having moved to settle on the swell of your hips, fingers flexing and massaging. You trembled with something, a lot of things, too many thoughts and sensations flooding you all at once.

                A scarred hand slipped under your shirt, tips of his fingers dragging along the underside of your breasts through your bra, before sliding his palm lower, a quick flick of his thumb freeing the button at the top of your jeans. When his hand slid past the waistband of your panties, you gasped, the fingers there tickling and twisting in your curls.

“Tell me to stop and I promise I will,” his middle fingertip slid lower, slowly, encountering the hot slickness that told him everything he needed to know. When he pushed it inside of you and crooked it forward, you found your voice again, moaning shudderingly and twisting your fists in his sweater. “That’s what I thought,” was his smug response.

He added a second finger, moving them in and out only as far as your tight jeans would allow, while you gushed and panted against him. A thought occurred suddenly, and you tilted your head to look at him.

“Let me see your face.”

He was shocked into stillness by your request. His satisfied smirk evened out into a grim line.

“No,” he finally answered, curtly.

“Why not?”

“You know why.” He scissored the fingers still inside of you, making you groan.

“No mask, or I’m calling it off.” You put some steel to your words, fairly difficult in this trying time.

                After a long moment of frustrating inaction, Deadpool grinned, and there was an unpleasant edge to it now. “Want to see what you’re getting yourself into, huh? That’s fine, I get it. _Fine._ ” And before you could process his acquiescence, his hand was gone from between your legs and you were being lifted, only to be set down again on your bottom while he moved to kneel, your legs on either side of him.

“Wait, wha-“

“Lift up,” he cut you off, tugging at your pants in an effort to remove them. Bizarrely, your lust-fogged brain ignoring every rational reason _not_ to, you raise your hips and allow him to slide off your jeans and soaked undergarments, leaving them to dangle from one ankle.

                The concrete underneath you is cold and gritty, but Deadpool grips your bottom by each cheek, tugging you closer until your knees are over his shoulders and his face is inches from your pulsing warmth.

“Mask…” you whisper, weakly, as his hot breath ghosts over your folds.

“Shut up, I’m getting to it.”

                And then his mouth descends on you, tongue lapping and twirling around your clit, skilled and sure. He grabs your hand with one of his in the midst of this, never breaking his tongue’s exquisite rhythm, and guides it to the loose fabric at the top of his mask. You grip it, but don’t pull, too distracted by his lips and teeth. He slows and you whine, hips wriggling for more.

“Do it,” comes his low command.

                It takes a second to process the demand, but eventually you manage. You tug slowly, revealing inch after inch of scarred, pocked flesh. His eyes burn at your from between your thighs when you’re finally able to meet them unobscured. He’s holding himself tense, seeming to expect you to kick him in the face and bolt or something similar. Instead, you dig your heels against his back between his shoulder blades, urging him to pick up where he left off.

A smile spreads, slow and almost shy, across his mouth, slick and shining with your juices. “Manageable?”

In lieu of a reply, you lean up to place a palm on the back of his bare, scabbed head, guiding it forcefully to its earlier goal.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he quips, before setting to work once again with renewed, invigorated ambition.

                It’s like he was _made_ for this; like the constant, babbling dialogue that he was famous for was simply a way to occupy time between the moments when his mouth could achieve its true purpose. It felt like he was talking to you right now, in a way; the hard, pointed tip of his tongue spelling out words and drawing pictures for you, your entire body straining for the conclusion to the story. He nibbled at your folds, whispering between flat laves of his tongue, gathering up your essence, swallowing you down. He moaned when you moaned, tensed as you did, fingertips gripping your soft inner thighs, spreading you further for his onslaught. You had never experienced oral sex like this before – like it was shared experience, equal in its intensity for both involved.

                So, it suffices to say, you were well past being aware of your surroundings at this point. There was a scuff above and behind you, a sharp intake of breath, and before you could process what these sounds meant, Deadpool had reacted. Something large and shiny hovers to the immediate right of your face: a gun. He had _drawn a gun_ in less time than it took you to grasp that the sound behind you was another person, an innocent passerby, most likely, because you were still in a very Public Place. A muffled curse followed, the receding sound of sneakers on concrete. It all took place in seconds, and your body was too flooded with sensations to even react.

                Except then the gun was pressed to your cheek, the cold steel of it sliding against your heated flesh, and you were _afraid._ Deadpool dragged it down slowly, over your breast and lower until it was resting on your thigh, his mouth never, for even a fraction of a second, halting its ministrations. You had never held a gun, had never (to your knowledge) even been close enough to do so until this moment. Guns meant Danger and Violence, and honestly, wasn’t that what this was? All of this? _Him_?

                But then he was sucking on your clit and the world went white, loaded and cocked firearms forgotten. Your orgasm was building, climbing, your thighs twitching on either side of his head as you moaned and writhed for just the right angle it would take to send you there. Your skin felt electric, a tingling pulse thrumming through you, vibrating… _wait_. Something really was vibrating. _Your phone_.

                Once again, with a coordinated skill no man had any right to possess, Deadpool’s tongue steadied its movements, leaving you hovering, right on the precipice of completion, as his right hand rifled through your pants pockets to locate the offending electronic. He pulls it out, turning its face towards you. The backlit screen shows a photo of you and your boyfriend, bedecked in shamrocks and kissing drunkenly, from last year’s St. Patrick’s Day parade. You squeeze your eyes shut, blocking it out. Deadpool’s mouth halts completely and you want to scream, maybe you do, you’re unsure of everything but your desperate need to climax at this point.

“Don’t you want to answer it?” He holds it against your ear, the stupid song you chose for your boyfriend’s ringtone blaring loudly so close to you.

“Stop,” you breathe, turning your face to the side.

He lifts his head up completely, away from where you need him to be the most. “You want me to stop?”

“No!” You scream, shaking with the force of your denied orgasm.

“Then answer the phone. Let him hear you cum like you never have with him. Wouldn’t that be great? How ‘bout it? By the way, my name is ‘Wade’, you know, in case you were wondering what to scream in the next three seconds when I deliver the most earth-shattering, toe curling orgasm you’ve ever experienced. Ready? Here it comes.” His thumb hits ‘accept’ at the same moment his mouth latches onto your clit once more, sucking, tongue curling just _so_ , and he’s right: you’re screaming his name as you shiver and shatter against him, carried away by the force of your climax, while the screen on your phone shines bright next to your face, your boyfriend’s voice saying your name, concerned and questioning.


	3. Weigh Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifting further...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, as it is a holiday weekend and I wanted to get something up! Happy Thanksgiving!

A cracked phone screen was well worth it.

                Miraculously, even during an orgasm of soul-shaking capacity, your reflexes came through for you. You had managed to smack the cell phone from Wade’s hand, sending it tumbling down the staircase, and violently, but effectively, ending the call. You regretted the inconvenience of having to replace the device, but that’s what phone insurance was for, you supposed.

                Also, from this experience you were able to learn, first hand, just how extensive Wade’s healing factor was. After you came down from your shuddering high, you attacked him; screaming, cursing, and knocking him backward so that he toppled down the steps, joining your phone at the bottom. You righted your wardrobe and picked up your purse, as he lay unmoving and groaning, before running down to check on him. You watched, transfixed, as a deep cut on his cheekbone healed over and bones re-set before your eyes. Only when you pegged him as being fully recovered did you fly at him again, throwing punches and screaming at him for the jackass move of calling your boyfriend while his face was still buried between your legs.

“Un- _fucking_ -believable! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Oh…so much,” he was able to get out between solid blows from your fists. “For example, none of what you’re doing right now is, in any way, interfering with my massive boner. In fact- _oof-_ yeaaah, right there.” Your knuckles landed with cracking impact against his jaw, jolting his head to one side.

                You turned away from him, disgusted, and bent to retrieve your cell and inspect the damage. The screen was shattered, refusing to turn on at all. Digging a fist in your hair, you choked back a sob as tears welled up in your eyes, a guilty, panicked burn growing inside of you. _How much did he hear? What had you done???_

“Hey, now, sweet cheeks…No need to freak out. It’s just a phone…” Wade stepped up close behind you, observing the damaged device.

Spinning to glare at him, you shoved him away, harshly. “It’s not about the phone, asshole! I-I…” You were unable to even say the words aloud.

“Cheated on your loving boyfriend?” He turned his head, spitting out a molar you had knocked loose with your earlier assault.

“Shut up! Yes!” You covered your face, voice cracking as your shoulders heaved with sobs.

“Yup, you sure did. No going back now. You _could_ tell him, though, get it alllllll out in the open. Beg and please for forgiveness. Might work, might not. I don’t know the guy, so….dunno his temperament. All I know about him is his taste in women, which,” here he smacked his lips exaggeratedly, “is excellent. I mean, really, _really_ excellent. Mmmm, how’re you feeling about round two right now? Maybe yes, maybe no?” Or maybe you’d like a little taste of me, hm? Yeah, I’d be down for that. Let’s say we find a more secluded spot-“

“Oh my GOD, do you ever shut up??!” You screech, covering your ears.

“Hardly ever,” he shrugged, “I mean, except during stuff like what we were doing up on the stairs. But, even then I was talking a little, I guess. Maybe you didn’t hear me over all your moaning and panting. Wanna know what I was saying?” He backs you up against the wall, his arms planting on either side of your head as he leans his mouth close to your ear.

“Stop,” you whisper, trembling. The breathiness to your voice betrayed the intent to your words.

Wade continues, ignoring you. “I was saying how sweet you were, how fucking good you taste. Mmmm, I could’ve stayed down there for days, wouldn’t even bother coming up for air. Just die and wake up buried in that hot little cunt to do it again and again. Unh, and when you screamed my name…I almost blew my load right there. Your fucking thighs twitching around my face, your fingers pulling me closer, ah….” He bumped his hips against yours, an impressive erection pressing against you, hot and throbbing. Your breath came in short pants, tears still slipping silently down your cheeks. Between your legs, a pulsing warmth smoldered and grew, your clit already over-sensitized and over-stimulated from earlier. But Wade wasn’t done:

“Are you going to cum again from just me talking? I honestly think _I_ might, because I can imagine it so clearly…your tight, hot pussy squeezing around my cock. Sssshit…and I haven’t even felt it yet, but I know it would be mind-blowing. And you think my _mouth_ can do great things? Just wait until I have you bent over in front of me. I’d pound you into next week and still have you screaming for more. You don’t have to wait, though, we can go somewhere now. Do you want to? Would you even make it? Probably not… _I bet if I just_ …”

                And then he touched you; just a light swipe from a single fingertip over the seam of your jeans at the apex of your thighs, and you were crying out, your climax rolling through you in shuddering waves. Against your hip, you felt a warm wetness bloom as he came as well, moaning hot against your neck.

                You shoved him away and bolted up the stairs as fast as your trembling legs would carry you. You ran nearly the whole way home, tear-blind and wracked with disgust with yourself. When you arrived at your apartment, you couldn’t imagine facing your boyfriend, even in sleep, so you crashed on the couch and eventually drifted off, still fully dressed and sick with guilt.

. . .

                You were awakened by a dip in the cushions, a scant few hours later, the sun filtering into the apartment weakly in the early morning hours. Your boyfriend brushed the hair away from your face, his eyes soft and worried.

“Why are you sleeping out here?”

                Shutting your eyes again to avoid seeing him, you lied, voice cracking with sleep, “I just didn’t want to wake you.”

“What happened to your phone?” He spotted the shattered mess on the coffee table. “I tried to call you last night. I heard you scream…”

“I dropped it.” _You wished he would, too._

“Yeah, I see that. But the scream…?”

“I saw a rat on the subway.”

“A…rat?”

“Yeah.”

“We live in the city. We see rats every day,” he sounds disbelieving.

“Yeah, but this one ran over my foot. I freaked and threw my phone.” The lie flows effortlessly, too easy.

“Oh. Gross.”

You nod, cracking your eyes to venture a peek at him. He’s fully dressed, wearing a backpack, with his duffel bag on the floor by his legs. You bolt upright, panicking. “Where are you going???”

“To my mom’s, remember? She’s having surgery and is going to need help around the house. We talked about this…are you alright?”

“Yeah….no! Please don’t leave me alone here…Can I come with you?” You twist your fists in his jacket, frantically.

“I mean, you can, but I thought you needed to work…” He’s eyeing you closer now, your disheveled clothes, your pink cheeks. “Did something else happen last night?”

“Nooo, no. Nothing.” You try to make your voice convincing, pulling back. “Sorry, I guess I was having a bad dream and I still feel kind of out of it…” Another falsehood, slipped in with barely any thought. _Why are you so good at this?_

“Poor babe.” He leans to press a kiss to your mouth and you hold stock-still, giving nothing back. There’s a hard, sharp pain in your chest. “So, you wanna come, then?”

“No, you’re right…I should work. How long will you be gone again?”

Your boyfriend stands, gathering his things. “About a week, depending on how she’s feeling. You sure you’re okay?” You had covered your face when he told you the length of his absence.

“I’m fine, yeah. Sorry,” you look up at him, smiling weakly.

“Alright, then. I gotta catch the train, so….love you.” He kisses the top of your head and moves towards the door.

                You murmur indistinctly, unable to find it within yourself to repeat the words back to him.

“Bye…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home alone for a week, your anchor gone....Can you resist the freedom? We'll have to see, next time :)


End file.
